


But Soft (or...Forsooth and Juliet)

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Older Woman/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Pining Jughead Jones, Student Jughead Jones, TA Betty Cooper, Teacher's Assistant Betty Cooper, cuddling with animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 12:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: Jughead spouts Shakespeare to prevent TA Betty Cooper from saying his full name, but once she smiles at him, he's hungry for the role of her Romeo.





	But Soft (or...Forsooth and Juliet)

**Author's Note:**

> Smudge and I needed a pick-me-up so this is in honor of all the fluff and amazingness that is Bughead. Mind the tags and have a wonderful time, dearies.

Her hair is pretty. Everything is pretty, but he notices her hair first, because he’s never seen a ponytail so perfectly swirled like the gilded curl of ribbon on a present. The way she slices through paper with quick, assured movements, he’s fairly sure she could make anything with just a sharp blade and sheer determination. To his utter horror, he realizes that the shapes are probably for some kind of orientation game.

 

The little sprig of hair bounces to and fro, and he watches it with curiosity as he pops open his laptop, spreading his legs in front of him. He wiggles his fingers to rid them of stiffness, wondering if his first sentence of the class should be about particularly jubilant hair.

 

A woman with dark, matte, wavy hair struts in, and he recognizes her as Sierra McCoy from the back flap of her book. The blonde with the rolling spiral ponytail perks up, eagerly showcasing the neat little piles she’s made.

 

“That’s fine, Betty. Will you do roll call while I prepare my notes?”

 

He can almost _see_ the thoughts running through this _Betty’s_ brain. _“Don’t you want to do roll call to get to know the names of the kids in your own class?”_ But she buries that suggestion with a bright smile that makes his insides quiver and he wonders if he should write about _that_ instead.

 

“I’d be happy to.”

 

Jughead sits back, curious how she’ll react to the hideous masterpiece of his name. Her teeth run along her lower lip, scanning the whole list before she starts at the top, which probably prevents any awkward stumbling. It’s smart, as is offering to mark down preferred names or pronouns if it’s something other than what the sheet suggests.

 

With growing anticipation, he waits for her to get closer and closer to the _J_ last names, stretching back his shoulders and expanding his chest. Because of her earlier preparation, she doesn’t raise her eyebrows at the name or even quirk her lips behind a laugh, but he knows when she’s reached it just by the impending dread and adrenaline rush. “Jones, For—”

 

“Forsooth,” he interrupts gaily. “What light from yonder window breaks?” That’s as far as he was planning on going, but she looks up, her smile spreading, and he’s inspired. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

 

“Should I write that down?” she teases lightly, pen playfully poised above her mark sheet. Her voice is soft, like velvety ice cream. The good kind. Not the cheap stuff they have at socials.

 

“I think someone already has. But you can call me Jughead.”

 

“Thank you, Jughead. Shakespeare actually wrote, _but soft,_ however I get the feeling your voice and enthusiasm will be a fun addition to this class.”

 

The ponytail sways gently like she’s waving to him as she marks something down, and god help him if it’s a smiley face, because in his book she’s already got a heart by her name.

 

 _But soft_ means _But wait._ She knows it, and he knows it, and he wants to thank her for saving him the horror of having his name spoken aloud.

 

At the end of the rigorous class, he takes his time to gather his things, watching as she furiously scribbles her notes, as if she finds it easier to labor with clenched fingers and ink rather than type with hard, easy mechanizations and spellcheck like the rest of the class does.

 

“If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to read anything.” He nods, gesturing to her neat almost-cursive.

 

“Oh! Forsooth!” He tries to swallow against the odd surge of pride that she remembers him and his stupid distraction. “I meant to ask, are you a theater major?”

 

“No. God, no.” He makes a face. _You wouldn’t want to see that_. Her eyes crinkle up around the corners when she smiles. Not like other people’s _don’t_ , he supposes, but hers seem particularly sweet. “English. I’ve already picked out the cardboard box I’m going to live in after graduation.”

 

“Nice. Better than a newspaper tent, which is where the Journalism majors are going to camp out.”

 

“In that dying industry? They’d be lucky if they had enough circulation to make a paper hat.”

 

She clears her throat, glancing back down at her notes. “I suppose I’ll have to rely on there being enough cardboard boxes to go around, then.”

 

 _Of course_ , he scolds himself, twisting his own body like he could slap himself. “Well, I’ll save you a solid model from a giant scanner or something.”

 

“Very generous of you, Jughead. But it won’t improve your grade.” The twinkle in her eye is cute, too. Everything’s so cute. What college girls wear sweater sets with skirts? What girls in _reality_ even look like her without a full-on style team? This girl was born to be in a rom-com. Well, maybe if she was slightly clumsier and spoke with a bit more breathiness. Maybe she’s too smart for that kind of thing. Then again, that’s limiting the genre. She’s already a heroine in his mind, a headstrong girl, and possibly an addiction.

 

He has half a mind to make _sure_ she’s not in a sorority before he indulges in a full-blown crush, but Sierra McCoy (who goes by former Mayor McCoy, Sierra, or Professor McCoy because she’s professional but also has delusions of grandeur like Madonna or Cher) interrupts them to go over what she wants Betty to prepare for next class.

 

“Until next time, Juliet,” he says, and both of the women in charge shoot him a bewildered glance.

 

~~~

 

Calling her _Juliet_ becomes a thing. _His_ thing. She never corrects him, blinking and smiling in a soft way that feels like a wink whenever it happens.

 

She passes him a handout.

 

_Thanks, Juliet._

 

Puts him into a small group.

 

 _You’ve got it, Juliet_.

 

Adds a suggestion to his paper?

 

 _Good eye, Juliet_.

 

Or depending on the context, _Harsh, Juliet_.

 

Sierra tries to put a stop to it.

 

“Just because you call her a different name doesn’t make you clever. Standing out and being smart are two different things,” she warns him and the class. He thinks it’s meant to discourage him, but it only serves to make him work harder to turn Betty’s blush into a smile when she buries herself in her notes.

 

“I think she’s just upset because she assumes you died at the end,” he whispers as he passes her desk, his grin a little toothier than he’s used to.

 

Round eyes, sharp jaw, she tilts her head. The little swirl at the end of her hair looks like a question mark. “Wouldn’t I?”

 

“Not in my version.”

 

She doesn’t call him _Forsooth,_ but she does keep his secrets. She knows his real name, that he browses Reddit when class is boring, and he’s pretty sure she can read minds.

 

When people are trying to cheat off each other’s sheets, she almost always just _happens_ to pop right in between them, asking how it’s going. If Ethel starts falling behind in her notes, anxiety kicking in, Betty raises her pen until there’s a pause in Sierra’s lecture to prompt an anecdote instead of a lecture-heavy section. Even in the instance Dilton starts going off-topic in one of his weird, slightly communist rants, Betty gets this hard look on her face with a smile he thinks could kill someone as she lightly intones, “Interesting,” her ponytail surprisingly rigid until it swings like the righteous hammer of knowledge as she schools them on Psychology and Poly-Sci through literature and real-life examples.

 

She’s amazing.

 

If her ponytail is otherworldly, her hands are perfectly human. Short, clipped nails. Average-length fingers. But they _move_ and slice through the air sometimes like she’s making a pizza he can’t quite see all the ingredients of. Shaping the world until it makes sense again.

 

Without reading minds, she’s definitely noticed the way he chews on pens and coffee canisters every time he gets to stare at her for extended periods of time, especially since it bothers Sierra. Betty usually shuffles in on herself and he pretends to pay attention to the professor for a few more minutes before exchanging a shy glance with her again in the hopes Sierra won't catch it.

 

Very little distracts Betty when she’s in _learning mode,_ but he discovers how to do it on accident. He brings a bag of chips and catches her rubbing her ponytail and glancing his way every time something crunches in his mouth. Normally, the attention would be something he’d enjoy, but it seems to stress her out, so he licks his fingers, wipes them on his jeans, and stuffs the chips back in his bag. Same thing with an apple. An orange. She just stares at the loud, juicy mess he makes, slipping him a napkin when the strings collect like spider webs in the corner of his desk.

 

A little weary, she whispers, “Can’t you eat something less distracting?”

 

“Hunger is the ultimate distraction,” he says by way of avoiding the question, and offers her an orange wedge.

 

She smiles and shakes her head, but he thinks both of their stomachs groan a little anyway.

 

~~~

 

He’s forgotten his key, which is a stroke of luck, because when he tracks Archie down at the gym, Betty’s running around the indoor track in little shorts that don’t have any awful Greek letters on them, and her ponytail is in rare form and _not_ curled, splintered and bouncy at the ends. It’s organized chaos, and he stares at her for a few full seconds before he hears someone call him a _perv_.

 

“I was looking at her _hair_ ,” he announces to the peanut gallery. Like he’d stare at her… _very nice_ legs in perfect view of the public. Like a barbarian.

 

“That your TA?” Archie asks.

 

“That’s my muse,” Jughead clarifies, sighing dreamily, even by his own standards.

 

Archie laughs, still untangling his key from the chain. “She’s here almost every day at 3, if you’re that interested.”

 

“I’m not a _stalker_ , Archie.”

 

He shows up at 2:45 in a nondescript tank top and the only pair of baggy workout shorts he owns and tries to read while he squashes his parts on a stationary bicycle that further contorts his awful posture. Towards the end of her run, her skin glowing with a fine sheen, she sees him, and despite the fact that neither of them can probably breathe very well at this point, she waves at him. He sits up and tilts his chin to smile at her with such a resurgence of energy that Archie sputters a laugh. Whatever kinds of squiggly emotions are happening in Jughead’s gut are probably because of his increased heart rate.

 

“Dude, you’re blushing.”

 

“This is the color of my face when I’m about to pass out and lose body parts to bruising.”

 

“Look at you, all motivated. Maybe I should’ve told you about the girls here earlier,” Archie teases.

 

It’s not _girls_ that do it for him. There are plenty of those out on their own for the first time, eager to explore and check out Archie’s guitar or whatever else is on the checklist of _new opportunities_.

 

Betty has an assuredness. Some indefinable energy that indicates she’s enjoying her education and that of others. He enjoys her thoughtful exploration. Sure, he’s had extensive fantasies about her in a few rather salacious scenarios with himself, herself, and/or a very expensive toy, but he likes listening to her engage passionately about socio economics even more than he does watching her run around the track. The reason she smiles interests him just as much as the swell of her breasts.

 

“Why don’t you offer to help her stretch?” Archie grins, bending over to flex his excessive muscles. Jughead shoots a panicked glance at the girl in question, not wondering if she heard them so much as worrying if she _sees_ this: Archie, in all his Greek god muscled glory.

 

But Betty doesn’t notice, not until she feels him looking at her, and offers up a small smile.

 

He smiles back and ducks into his own workout, pretending to stretch. To his surprise, she comes over, perching her hands delicately on the back of his console as she stretches out her quads. “What are you reading?”

 

Archie shoots him a pointed glance.

 

 _My dream girl, I know_ , he thinks at his friend, forgetting that Betty can read minds, and has a _very_ lovely expression on her face.

 

He’s forgotten what words are, but auto-pilot has him cracking jokes, swiping his hat off to dab at his brow.

 

Next time, she stops by again, asking his opinions about podcasts and audiobooks. They talk about theater, about class. He tries to wheedle out which students she hates, hoping her annoyance aligns with his, but she arches her body and looks away and he can’t _help_ staring at her breasts.

 

“I really like your ponytail.” He swallows, sure he’s completely red when she arches a brow at him. _Mind-reader,_ he reminds himself, feeling like a dick.

 

Twirling the messy golden spiral in one hand, she’s _almost_ coy. “Your hair’s nice too.” There’s a moment that her eyes flicker to the mop of unruly madness atop his head. She considers him like she looks at new projects in class, that same eager light in her eyes to study, explore, and conquer.

 

“She _likes_ you, bro,” Archie insists, but Jughead laughs it off, flexing in the mirror just a little bit. He decides a few reps for toning his arms and abs couldn’t hurt his confidence. It’s not like she’s enamored to the extent he is, or can even do anything about it while they’re still in class together. That gives him time, unfortunately.

 

Lots of time.

 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t be his _oh-so-charming_ self and hope something nice happens.

 

~~~

 

There are puppies. Bunnies. Cats. There could be a _whale_ or a rainbow _unicorn_ and he still would not be able to drag his eyes off the picture before him that is Betty Cooper in her cute/sexy jean overalls.

 

“Juggie!” She beams, her cheeks coloring nicely as she strokes the little fur ball in her hands. “You want to take a study break? Only $3 to join the petting zoo.”

 

If she’d said $30, he would’ve handed it over and not bothered to eat that week.

 

“What is _that?”_ Something with small, beady eyes and cute elongated ears pokes out from between her overalls and shirt.

 

“Oh! _That_ , is ticklish,” she blusters, clearly needing another set of arms to juggle the excess amount of wriggling fluff in her immediate vicinity.

 

“Here,” he offers, putting his hands out for the one in her arms, figuring that’s safer than reaching into her clothes for the one burrowing in her warmth.

 

The fur feels surprisingly silky in his fingers, and the bunny is so tiny that he can feel it’s heartbeat through its skin. “Aw. I bet this guy is gonna get freaked out and pee on me, aren’t ya?”

 

She giggles, perching a clingy kitten on her overalls comfortably situated between her breasts.

 

“Based on location, a pee situation might be worse for you.”

 

“Hopefully they’re calm now.” The sweet way she uses two fingers, alternating strokes on the animals’ heads, makes _him_ feel soothed. He wishes he could be the lucky recipient of her touch, and no sooner does he have the thought that a quick flash of pain slices against his skin. The change in pressure of his palms makes him snap his hands up on instinct to prevent the cute little bunny from hopping away.

 

“Oh my god! Are you okay?”

 

Betty leans forward, checking his hand. Hissing, he nods, even though the rabbit’s foot is prodding and reopening the angry red wound pretty much every second.

 

“Let me help. Aw, damn.” After kissing the bunny’s ears, she puts it back in solitary, the kitten in her cleavage watching curiously as Betty takes Jughead’s hand, swabbing it with alcohol. His body keeps shuddering between stinging pain and warm relief with the pressure of her attention. It’s still amazing she’s prepared enough to carry a mini first-aid kit in her bag. Like it’s fate.

 

“I feel terrible,” she says sheepishly. “You paid $3 for two seconds of a bunny cuddle and a giant cut on your hand right before midterms.”

 

“It’s not all bad,” he starts, frowning at their joined hands as she’s gently wrapping him up. He doesn’t say, _I got my wish. You are touching me_.

 

“Stay here.”

 

She gets him a little puppy, a friendly, quiet, sleepy fellow that has his heart melting. “Oh, I’m never going to leave,” he almost wails, cradling its cute little body and kissing its cheek.

 

Giggling, she pops up her phone. “Do you mind if I take a photo? Or a, um, a video? For my story?”

 

“You writing about this?” he asks, rubbing his cheek along the leathery sweetie in his hands.

 

“No, I meant—well, it’s just really cute.”

 

“Oh. You mean _your_ story. I’ll need all photos and videos approved, but yes, Betty, you can let this moment live in your phone.”

 

He doesn’t have to ham it up too much. Whatever this puppy’s name is, he’s adorable, and the only thing that can _kind_ of take his eyes off of Betty’s legs. But he’s nothing if not a multitasker, and nuzzles his new friend and watches Betty’s cheeks get round with the biggest smile he’s ever seen.

 

“Maybe I should put him in my cleavage too, what do you think?” He positions the pup in his jacket, carefully zipping up until he has a little papoose of his own. Betty covers her heart and _aw_ ’s and he can’t help smiling at the universal syllable of _adorable_. It’s not exactly _sexy_ or _charming_ , but for some reason, he doesn’t feel like he has to be.

 

They end up scratching the heads of their friends and cuddling, laughing, and having what Jughead might in some universe consider a _very_ good date. If food was involved. They take photos _together_ , too, and he takes some of her.

 

Eventually, he asks if he should drop another $3 in for spending so much time, but she waves it off, and he stays for another hour. They trade cuddle-buds and kiss them in the transfer. He has _no_ shame in the way he pointedly smooches the muzzle she just littered with pecks. Eyes bright, smile warm, she tells him he’s a softie.

 

It’s definitely the best first date he’s ever had. Best _date_ , bar none.

 

He uses a photo she took of him and the puppy as a profile picture and gets a weird amount of friend and follow requests from girls on campus he doesn’t remember talking to. When he compliments Betty’s camera skills and tells her about it, she offers him a thin-lipped smile, a shrug that leaves her ponytail on a diagonal, and says, “You both looked so happy. Girls like a good softie.”

 

“That’s not what I heard.”

 

She does that slow-blink, chiding smile thing, and he melts, wondering if this is _literally_ puppy love.

 

~~~

 

During class, he talks a fair amount. If he knows the answer or has something to say, he sees no reason not to. Sometimes he goes out of his way to pretend he actually cares what Ethel did the past weekend so he can loudly announce next to Betty which events he’s been roped into participating in. Readings. Magazines. One-Act plays.

 

The pamphlets of his magazines poke out above Betty’s folders, and he teases her about secretly grading them. At his shows and readings, she shows up with that perfect ponytail somehow elegant and sweet no matter what the occasion. Ethel comes too, and he has to awkwardly field the almost-invitation he extended, but he’s nice and introduces her to someone he vaguely remembers who might care to talk to her. Before he can extricate himself, Betty’s usually already gone. He teases her about being the fastest blonde in the west, and it always comes back to calling her Juliet.

 

Staring at her in class is getting harder because she seems to catch him at it a lot more. It makes him giddy, for some reason. Maybe he gets the same look _she_ does when he answers something smartly in class. Even though it’s not his most educational class, it’s definitely his favorite.

 

Finally, when he’s sure Sierra is already down the hall and absorbed in a conversation on her cell phone, Jughead sidles up to Betty and asks her if she’d like to grab a coffee.

 

She stares at the floor about ten feet ahead of them like she can’t even see it yet. “Oh. To…go over the midterm?”

 

“No? To have a beverage, some food, and good conversation.”

 

Swinging her thumb under the pressure spot of where her bag sits, Betty shoots a glance at Sierra. “I’d like to, but I’m not supposed to hang out with students while I’m teaching them.”

 

“What about the bunny cuddles?”

 

“That was a study session,” she laughs, tucking a nonexistent hair behind her ear. “An equal-opportunity fundraiser.”

 

“Okay, come study with me at the coffee shop. For the Jughead Jones caffeine addiction fund.”

 

There’s this urgent energy on her face, the expressive equivalent of violently shaking a foot out of nerves. “I don’t think—”

 

“So think about it. Or don’t.  And just do,” he offers. Helpless, she lowers the books in her arms, and he thinks she’s rubbing her fingers in the hand farthest from him that he can’t see. The moment shifts into awkwardness, and he doesn’t want to be an ass and just drag her off, so he settles for being flippant, nudging her with his arm. “But don’t wait too long. Girls are suckers for a softie, and I’m in _very_ high demand with a certain group of puppies.”

 

He thinks he’s being funny, and walks away with extra-nervous pep in his step. But Betty barely looks at him next class period, like she’s afraid that she’ll actually have to respond. He feels the rejection brewing in his gut and acts like the question never happened, that he never put himself out there. Reading people wrong isn’t really his thing, and he doesn’t understand what he can do besides _wait_. And he doesn’t really _like_ waiting.

 

That weekend, he’s walking down the main boulevard with Archie after an emergency pizza run when he hears his name and feels himself pushed forward, a girl’s arms around his shoulders.

 

“Juggie!”

 

The warmth of her breath on his neck sends a chill down his spine, and he closes his eyes at the intensity of it.

 

“Betty?”

 

A brunette girl in high heels stumbles out of the wine bar after her, and it takes him a few minutes of babbled conversation to figure out what’s going on. It’s Betty’s birthday.

 

“She didn’t let me bake my own cake, and eat it too,” Betty frowns, still draped on him in a hug, her hair miraculously wavy and around her shoulders. “Apparently, grown-ups have _wine_ for birthdays.”

 

“Everyone knows you need cake to absorb the wine,” he teases. “Would you like a slice of leftover pizza as recompense? My birthday gift to you?”

 

“Okay.” She plucks the slice shyly from the box like he’s presented her like a bouquet of roses. She nibbles somewhat quietly and listens to them chat, her usual sharp attention span fluid and soft.

 

Her friend lets it slip that Betty saw him through the window and ran out after him, saying something about _Forsooth, it is the west!_

 

He grins like the lucky idiot he is, one hand still wrapped around her waist. The whole time they’re catching up, she hasn’t stopped leaning into him, smiling and staring. It’s like an episode of _The Twilight Zone_. A rare, happy one. While Archie awkwardly chats up her fancily-dressed MBA friend Veronica, Betty leans in with her low-cut top pressed against Jughead and says she wishes she could have coffee with him, that she could sober up and talk to him all the _time_.

 

“You gonna date me, Betts?” he teases, a warm, buzzing feeling echoing in his chest.

 

“No,” she blushes fiercely, burying her cheek against his neck. “I can’t do that.”

 

“You wanna study?”

 

She nods.

 

“Study with me.”

 

His fingers play at the dip in her back, and hers slide into the base of his neck. He thinks he might be on the verge of offering to marry her, just to make this all above-board, when she sighs and slams her forehead against his collar. “I _can’t_ ,” she whines.

 

The force of her annoyed self-restraint makes him laugh. “That’s okay, Betts. How about when the quarter’s over?”

 

“But what if you take my other classes? Or you meet some floozy who doesn’t cut you with rabbit’s feet? I want you to be in my class and be my friend and be my…” He’s still chuckling about the fact she said _floozy_. That she’d be jealous or insecure when she’s basically the coolest person he’s ever met. Dazed, she leans back to look at his face, her gaze lingering on his mouth. “I could teach you things, Juggie.” She licks her lips. “I’m really smart.”

 

He’s so hard, he’s sure that she can feel it.

 

The girls offer to share a car back to campus housing, and Veronica has to reign Betty in from her slightly tipsy instincts to pluck at his hat, caress his wrist, sit in his lap. At parties, he generally dislikes this kind of blatant touching. But Betty’s not a stranger. She’s adorable. She’s trying to talk to him about Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory and simultaneously pull his knee into her lap.

 

“You’re more eager to cuddle than that kitten was,” he laughs, surprised by just how affectionate she is, always asking, “Is this okay?” as she nuzzles and wraps her way even more into his life. They pull up to the apartment, but him and Betty are so engaged in their conversation that they miss Veronica’s pointed eyebrow and Archie’s subtle cough.

 

Veronica finally gives up trying to be polite, loudly asking, “Are you coming home, Betty, or not?”

 

Betty’s fingers tighten on his knee. Sensing her deer-in-the-headlights panic, Veronica rolls her eyes.

 

“Boys, you wanna come up for a night cap? You can stay on the couches if it gets late, and I’ll have my driver take you home in the morning. Otherwise if you’d be nice enough to help me babysit until she goes to sleep, I’d very much appreciate it.”

 

“Thanks, V,” Betty keens, reaching out to hug her friend until even _she’s_ giggling under the attention.

 

“Anything for the birthday girl,” Veronica says fondly.

 

The girls live in a decently sized apartment for grad students, but Betty has no interest in showing them around. She pulls Jughead down to the couch and puts on Willy Wonka before tearing at some candy and cupcakes Veronica had begrudgingly ordered for her friend. The first bite gets frosting on her nose, and as Jughead leans forward to get a napkin, he’s stunned by her ripping the treat in half horizontally and plopping the bottom half of the cupcake on top to make it a cake sandwich.

 

“You’re—that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He playfully swipes at her nose while she chews and waves his hand away.

 

“You can’t call me sexy, I’m your teaching assistant.”

 

“I called the cupcake sexy.”

 

“Oh.” She looks down at her creation with a hint of disappointment. “Do you want it?”

 

“This particular cupcake is something I’ve wanted for a while,” he says softly, dabbing her nose for one last smear of the frosting.

 

“Smooth,” Veronica chortles from the loveseat, looking up from her phone. “Betty, you better eat that thing before you get in trouble or I put it back in the box.”

 

“It’s _my_ birthday!” Betty’s glare through a mouthful of fluffy cake is enough to make anyone laugh or cringe. She’s strangely intimidating, feral with her hair all around her face. But he likes it, and brushes just a bit of her mane behind her ear so she doesn’t get frosting in it. When he feels the gazes of Archie and Veronica burning into him, Betty’s soon following, Jughead clears his throat and asks if there are any other snacks.

 

Properly cowed, he doesn’t actually make a move for Betty’s cupcake, although thankfully there are _more_ that Veronica and Betty generously share with them.

 

“She’s a hopeless lightweight,” Veronica shakes her head, watching her friend fondly, if with some annoyance.

 

They keep plying her with water and snacks, even though she waves them off and says she’s fine. Jughead’s so entranced, bemused, that he can barely watch the movie. Because she’s not quite _drunk_ , but it’s clear she doesn’t _drink_ very often. The way she reaches into her water glass with her tongue first, the rough way she pushes her body into the couch and into him, all of it is just a less rigid example of who she is. Same with her loose, wavy hair. It keeps getting in her face when she tries to lay down on the couch, still idly chattering about the different interpretations of the story.

 

“Want me to braid this, Betts?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

She spins, fluffing her hair as he turns to face her on the couch. Veronica rolls her eyes, and Archie stifles a laugh. “Laugh all you want, but I happen to be an amazing stylist.”

 

“I’m sure. That must be why you wear that hat all the time,” Veronica says dryly. He shoots her a look, because _how would she know about his hat_ unless Betty told her about it?

 

He sections each piece of Betty’s hair, delicately threading it and holding the midsection when he thinks it might pull, like his sister taught him to do when she was young. Every move just adds a new dimension, and he layers all her hair together until he can safely tie it with an elastic he plucks from her offered wrist.

 

“All better,” he insists, tapping her waist to let her know that she’s done.

 

Veronica takes a picture of them, which makes him _nervous_ for her.

 

“Don’t worry, this is just to show her what an idiot she was being, in case she doesn’t remember.”

 

“I’ll remember,” Betty protests, sliding onto her side, her feet digging under his thighs. “I’m a steel trap. I solved—”

 

“I know, you solved over thirty cases of petty crimes and one count of murder all before grad school. And now you’re a Reddit detective. I’m so proud.”

 

“You should be proud,” Betty grumbles into her wrist, a makeshift pillow. Jughead lessens his general movie commentary, content to stroke her ankle, pull her feet into his lap and massage them while she randomly feeds him or twists around to watch her friends and ask a random question. There are a few times it’s a close call, when her foot slips and rubs somewhere it shouldn’t. But he catches it, rubbing her kindly in another direction or holding her until the urge to fluster passes.

 

Eventually, Betty fades into soft breathing and restless sleep. The privilege is precious, to feel her heartbeat in the arch of her foot, watch her rapt attention fade into sweet relief.

 

“Sorry we hijacked your night,” Veronica offers.

 

“Are you kidding? This was almost perfect,” Jughead says, wishing they could do it again.

 

At the end of the movie, he volunteers to carry Betty into bed. She’s almost dead weight, and his breath might escape in a whine during the initial lift, but he’s glad he’s got the privilege to do it without needing to ask Archie for help. Nobody messes with her clothes (Veronica offhandedly mentions that it’s _not like she’s wearing a bra)_ , so him and Archie just decide to stay up with the impressive movie collection in the living room until they fall asleep. He quietly thanks Archie for making an impression on Veronica, enough so they could stay.

 

“I think you did that yourself, bro, with the hair-braiding and sweet stuff.”

 

“We were watching Willy Wonka. I had to be sweet.”

 

He wakes up from his awkward position on the couch in his stiff jeans to a vision of Betty’s damp wavy hair drawn off to the side over her bare shoulder, a giant pastel towel the only thing between him and a wet dream.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” he mumbles. “You’re beautiful.”

 

Shy, she squeezes her hair in her fist, disappearing into her bedroom. The door doesn’t click closed.

 

He’s not sure if he’s meant to follow her, but he doesn’t risk it, trying to ease the pain in his bloodless legs amidst the sound of Archie’s snoring.

 

At breakfast, he’s sure he looks like death warmed over, but Betty looks like a goddamn goddess with _mousse_ in her hair to make it all windswept and beach-y.

 

“Not bad for a second date,” he tells her through a mouthful of toast.

 

“That wasn’t a date.” Her knife spreads butter evenly across the textured grain.

 

“Well it sure as hell wasn’t a study session.”

 

She blinks at the crumbs he just spewed on the table.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Being a college boy sometimes involves him consuming things and speaking at the same time.

 

Betty just smiles, as if she’s known a hundred guys who’ve done likewise, and offers him another napkin.

 

~~~

 

She _likes_ his photography on social media. Occasionally comments. Usually it’s something short and sweet or an emoji. Jughead, for his part, _deep_ -likes, but never comments, which Archie groans over, rubbing his face and complaining, “Dude. You can’t do that. Then she’ll _know_.”

 

“Know what?”

 

“You’re looking.”

 

“Arch, I stare at her every single class period and rubbed her feet on her birthday. I think she _knows_ I’m looking.” He doesn’t mention to Archie about the coffee invitation.

 

The nebulous idea of seeing her outside of class on purpose is taken out of his hands when Veronica invites him and Archie to a party, confirming, “You _are_ 21, right?”

 

“Right!” Archie lies, his fake ID always right behind his real one.

 

Jughead’s smarter than his friend, and he knows the only reason she’s asking is because she doesn’t want to be liable for serving a minor. Betty knows his year, _knows_ his age, and he’s sure she’s told Veronica, who has chosen to ignore it in favor of new _friends_ to play with. But Jughead’s not going to be a buzzkill and tell Archie not to drink after he helped him on Betty’s birthday. He agrees to go to this party, knowing that she’ll probably be there, and that he’ll probably feel sick and nervous the entire time but at least a more prominent figure in her life. Show he can handle this…her roommate…or people…or whatever.

 

She seems uncomfortable about it in class, if only by the way her smiles don’t linger with their usual brightness. Her attention is focused on Sierra, almost as if she’s trying to direct him to do the same. So he doesn’t wait after class to talk to her when her head stays down on her notes. He accepts her nervous waves and offhand comments instead of full-on conversations at the gym. Because he doesn’t want to make her nervous. He wants to make her _happy_.

 

That goal won’t change just because she’s a little embarrassed about the best surprise of his life.

 

She does talk about it a few days later, her wrists nervously crossed over her notebook, thumb flicking the spiral edge. “Thank you for my birthday. The pizza, and the…braid, and everything.” Her cheeks are as pink as her sweater, and he tries to remain calm, palms flat on the sides of the armchair. “You and your roommate seem like really good guys. I mean, I _know_ you’re a good guy, I just…” She trails off, looking like she wants to rip her skin off her body.

 

“I get it. As the king of sucky birthdays, I’m glad I could help.”

 

A little inhale sways her whole upper body back and forth. Unfortunately, her teeth dig in like a latch on whatever she’s thinking, and it doesn’t come out of her mouth.

 

“Would you like to sit?”

 

A firm nod, ponytail slinking up and down, and she slides into the chair next to him with the grace of a girl who knows how to sit in a denim skirt. He misses the overalls. The hair let down. Not the aesthetic, although that’s certainly pleasing, but just the way she allows herself to relax in them.

 

“Do you still have any candy left?” he teases, eyebrows raising in surprise when she pulls a pack of licorice from her messenger bag.

 

Twirling the end of her ponytail against her neck, Betty regards him favorably with jade green curiosity. “Tell me more about the reign of terrible birthdays.”

 

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t want to hear about that.”

 

“I’m interested. I’ve read your papers, glimpsed inside the dark and terrible place you seem to think is your mind. You’re different. In a good way!” She reaches out, touching his knee in reassurance. “Although if you tell me being the king of bad birthdays is how you got your crown beanie, I might not believe you.”

 

His neck almost hurts from the unnatural angle he hangs it on. “And what, Juliet, is a relationship without trust?”

 

Her gaze drops to the floor, hands creeping under her thighs so she can sit on them. It’s just a flash, but he gets the idea that maybe she doesn’t trust _herself_.

 

~~~

 

As obnoxious as Jughead can be in class, gearing up for a party isn’t his forte, and he’s not sure he’ll even stay longer than to latch onto intelligent, flirty conversation with Betty until she convinces herself it’s too much and then he’ll bury his woes in whatever snack bowl is within reach before going home.

 

Veronica is a little louder than usual, draped in pearls and something that must be high-fashion because it all seems a little _much_ for a house party, even for grad school kids. Archie beelines for her at the drink station, quickly getting into a slight bro-off with the aristocratic-looking guy on her left. Jughead sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to quell the immediate annoyed, desperate feeling in his throat of being at a party where he doesn’t know anybody. He’s tall, so he peers over the respectably-sized, hip crowd until he spots the right shade of blonde, this time in soft curls with half of it pinned back behind her ear.

 

There’s something green with salt lined around the rim in her hands but it looks like she’s maybe taken two sips of the thing and doesn’t want to be rude by dumping it out or leaving it somewhere. Probably a Veronica creation.

 

Swallowing every introvert impulse he has to run, Jughead pushes his hat down more on his head and makes his way over to say hi. She jumps a little when he gently puts his hand on her back, and the guy she’s talking to looks strangely intrigued by the motion.

 

“Hey. Betty. Thanks for the invite.”

 

“Oh, that was Vero—”

 

“I know,” he teases, leaning in more than he probably needs to. The tall guy keeps studying them with a strange smugness, so Jughead straightens and removes his hand from her back. “Hi. I’m Jughead.”

 

“I’m Kevin. And you’ve met _Juliet_ , I presume?”

 

Betty clenches her jaw and shakes her head at her friend in a silent plea.

 

“Oh, so you’ve been talking about me, Betts?”

 

“You’re _famous_ ,” Kevin teases. “You give her the best stories from class. And life, apparently.”

 

She puts her lips to the salt rim she seems to have no intention of licking off. “Kevin is actually involved in the theater program. I thought he’d appreciate one of my students so readily misquoting Shakespeare as a first impression.”

 

“Yes. A regular Romeo. That’s what we refer to you as, by the way.” There’s no _meanness_ in the statement, but there is a certain element of baiting.

 

“Shucks, and here I always thought I was _irregular_.”

 

Betty giggles, but swallows it under Kevin’s gleeful appraisal.

 

Jughead feels _himself_ blush, realizing that she _talks_ about him. A lot. Favorably. As Romeo.

 

“So if I’m Romeo, and you’re Juliet, shouldn’t we be dancing at some point tonight?”

 

“Only if we want to start down the path to elopement and death.”

 

“Dancing with me…those are pretty strong possibilities.”

 

“Go on, Betty. I’ll cut in after two songs.” Kevin pushes her towards the dance floor, relieving her of the green mixture in her hands. Willingly enough, they both go to a somewhat free section of the floor, her hand in his.

 

Once actually faced with the idea of dancing, however, Jughead has no idea what to do. There are some girls with bizarre cat ears on holding hands and dancing in the corner, but not a ton of _couples_.

 

He tugs at his collar. “I seem to have forgotten my choreography.”

 

She studies him for a second, heat rising up the back of his neck. Her gaze makes him feel like he’s _young_ or _inexperienced_ or _awkward_ or something. Liking her makes him vulnerable in a way he’s not always comfortable with. “Come here,” she insists gently, tugging his hands until they’re on her hips. She rests her forearms on his shoulders, looking up at him like she’s deciding what to say while they rock rigidly to the music. Embarrassed, fairly certain she’s about to draw a line somewhere, he glances away, nervously flexing his fingers on the silky material of her dress.

 

“Didn’t you ever go to any dances in high school?”

 

“No. I went to one, freshman year, with my friends, and spent the whole night disappointed in the snack bar and wondering why anyone willingly wears a tie.”

 

She smiles, her eyes bright, but almost in a way that steals the light out of everything else. The low-burn in his stomach keeps spreading. “My feet usually hurt because of the shoes, but you were right about the snacks.”

 

“How are your feet now?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“How am I as a…dancer?”

 

“Stiff,” she teases, and he tries to ignore the wave of anticipation that tingles down the hairs on his neck.

 

They wait a few more beats.

 

“You’re so opinionated in class. It’s weird not to be talking to you now.”

 

“I didn’t think you were supposed to talk while you were dancing.”

 

“Romeo and Juliet did.”

 

“Romeo and Juliet did not have to compete with Veronica’s sound system.”

 

They smile at each other, leaning in to get above the music and into each other’s orbit.

 

After a few minutes of insanely close conversation, punctuated only by the occasional tipsy twirl and an ill-conceived dip, Kevin approaches.

 

Backing up, Jughead wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. “I tried to set the bar low for you,” he chuckles awkwardly, trying not to read into the way Betty’s hand still lingers on his forearm.

 

“No, you were great. How about a few more minutes, Jug? For practice?”

 

Kevin arches an eyebrow, glancing between both of them. “You sure?”

 

Her chin ducks adorably into her chest before she fixes Jughead with what he can only hope are bedroom eyes. “Yeah. If you’re willing.”

 

This time, when they move closer together, almost every single part of them is touching. He hates the idea of people _seeing_ this intimacy, so he chooses an ambient spot on the floor to focus on, slowly letting his heat transfer into her body.

 

“You know…” Her voice is soft, and the velvety image of breaking the seal on expensive ice cream comes to mind again. “I have this book…”

 

He blinks heavily, still imagining the way the vanilla cream would drip down the metal spoon. How sharp and rich it would be on his tongue. “Yeah?”

 

“It’s in my room, if you wanted to…”

 

Shocked, it actually takes him half a second to respond, all the muscles in his back tightening. “Yeah. Yeah, I like books.”

 

She unhooks his arms behind her back and takes his hand, leading him to the back hall he saw her disappear in with only that fluffy towel between them. To his surprise, instead of using a key, Betty pops out one of her bobby pins and jiggles the handle until it unlatches.

 

“Amazing.”

 

He’s fairly certain he doesn’t hear a word she says. There _is_ a book, and she’s not looking at him, she just keeps biting her lip and tracing this book cover and sitting on her bed like she’s not sure what to do with him other than go on a rampant train of thought about Shakespeare. As she flips her palms up, he notices her hands. The amazing hands that accentuate her brilliance are dotted in faint, angry memories.

 

 _Out, bloody spot_ , he thinks, and without understanding what he’s doing, gently takes her wrists in his hands.

 

Her chatter pauses, accompanied by her sharp inhale. She doesn’t let it out, not even when his thumbs smooth over the delicate curves of her bones.

 

Unsure what to do, what it _means_ , he looks up with a strange, horribly stretched feeling that makes him want to throw himself over her and smother the horridness out of the world.

 

But he sees her: vulnerable, strong, afraid. He keeps looking, to find what else he’s missed. What else she’ll show him.

 

“I…I used to do that sometimes, when I was stressed.”

 

He nods, carefully tracing her veins, like they’re a map to this girl he’s built up in his head. The _real_ girl before him, who is somehow even better.

 

“I got help so I don’t do it anymore. Not as often, anyway. Doing something with my hands tends to help.”

 

Testing, slow, he links their fingers together. Her face seems relaxed, soft, and pretty as she regards their unlikely union.

 

This doesn’t feel like a TA and her student having a conversation. Maybe it’s a _little_ like a muse and the artist. But it’s deeper than friends. More than inspiration, even.

 

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

 

In the quiet of her room, he can hear the soft shift of her hair sliding across her skin. She tilts her chin up, the unreal quality of her smile giving him the gentlest permission to bring her hands to his lips for a soft, sincere kiss. It feels no less intimate than braiding her hair or watching her sleep, yet somehow it’s more powerful, because he feels himself grow. Maybe in her esteem, but generally he feels his love mature beyond a crush into a deep-seated appreciation for her soul. Besides being bold and brilliant and beautiful, she’s—

 

“Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.”

 

He blinks.

 

“You skipped a part.”

 

“I know.” She nods gently, urging him to clasp and kiss her hands again. Enraptured, he does, soothing her skin with his unworthy lips, only stopping when he hears her sniff, and looks up to see a crystalline track of tears sliding down her cheek.

 

“Betty?”

 

“Would you give me my sin again?”

 

“Yes.” He glances down at her lips, familiar with the scene, aware that they’re making their own script. “ _Yes._ ”

 

He kneels forward just as she draws him in, her kiss sweet and wholesome and plush, turning his heart into a flowering, peeling rose and her worries into mulch. It stays that way for _seconds_ , Jughead unable to count the heartbeats, but feels them hard in his bones. When they stop, they both breathe, a long, sweet whisper of the remains of an unsaid declaration.

 

Before he can decide whether to quote Romeo again, she tugs him forward into another kiss. They stay like that, the dream morphing into something passionate when he ends up kneeling between her thighs, kissing down her neck. He wants to go lower, his sternum straining with the effort, but Betty keeps dragging his face back up to kiss him.

 

“I won’t use you,” she promises.

 

“This isn’t practice,” he manages back.

 

Her tongue unravels him, has him shivering on his knees until he’s begging _please_ , “Please, let me touch you. Let me kiss you. Everywhere.”

 

“I didn’t—I didn’t plan on this. We can’t do this yet. I’m your—”

 

“Juliet. And I’m your Romeo.” Torn, she lets her fingers trace down along the sides of his neck. “But our families aren’t warring. Nobody in our class will know, and finals are just around the corner. If you want me to drop the class, I will. Or if you have to grade something, I know you’re honest, and you want to be fair, just…get a second opinion or give me a C or something. The semester is almost over and I haven’t stopped…I’ll _never_ stop thinking of you as my Juliet. As my Betty.”

 

“Would we write a happier ending?” she smiles, eyes still a little watery as her thumb traces along her cheek.

 

“Speaking of a happy ending…I might need a little guidance.”

 

He plucks at her skirt, surprised and elated when she actually shifts upward to help him slide her black lacy underwear off. It’s so _fucking_ amazing that he almost wants to tuck it into his back pocket. Reverent, grateful, he kisses down her covered chest, his hands sliding under her skirt.

 

He’s not _good_ at this, can’t imagine he would be, but Betty moans and tuts sweet encouragement like, “That’s it, kiss me there, soft touches up high and firmer down low.” The strain in his pants is so hard that he almost wishes he were on the bed just so he could rut against something as he sucks and kisses and nips up the fleshy thighs to her sweet sin.

 

 _“Mmm-mmm_. _”_ Her initial gasp and moan, the way her hand shoots out to grip his hair the first time he kisses her open sex, makes him think he’s doing it wrong. But her leg hooks around his shoulder, and she scoots her hips closer to him for more contact, hiking up her skirt to see his face better, and everything just…falls into a natural rhythm. It’s really _wet_ and velvety and _warm_. His thumb strokes down her slit, finding the places traversed by his tongue that make her arch her back and close her eyes.

 

“I… _yes_.” Her directions get sparser, his confidence more pronounced, and by the end he’s licking her clit with such insistence that she actually _bucks_ against his face when she comes, his hat pushed back and hair nearly torn out of his roots in her rapture. Sucking, lavishing her in his devotion, he wants to bring her there again. “Oh, hold on, I’m sensitive. You don’t have to—” That’s as far as the protest gets, swallowed by her pleasure, by his determination to make her happy. She falls back on the bed, panting, sweating, drawing her dress down until the rosy peaks of her breasts can be seen through her lacy black bra and he moans against her, one hand coming up to join hers and pluck at her nipples. She arches _hard_ , coming so aggressively that even _he_ thinks he blacks out for a minute.

 

The ringing in his ears recedes, his tongue swollen, finally receding into his mouth, and he haphazardly wipes his chin before climbing up the bed to lay alongside her.

 

“Get a condom,” she pants, staring at the ceiling.

 

“W-what?”

 

“Condom. Do you have one? Or should I ask V?”

 

“Shit. I had no idea Shakespeare was so powerful.”

 

She takes his chin between her thumb and forefinger, kissing him in a way that feels like she’s sucking out his soul in the best way possible, his dick still throbbing in protest for attention.

 

His lips still feel sticky and slide with yearning when she pulls away. “We’re writing our own story, aren’t we?”

 

“Yes.” Parched, he leans in to kiss her again, his thumb nudging against the delicate underside of her throat.

 

As they make out, Betty reaches into his pocket. He’s so far gone that he doesn’t even register if she’s trying to rob him or rub him before she finds his wallet and rifles through it for a condom that’s been pressed down and sitting in there _just in case_ since Senior year of high school. She scans the expiration date before carefully setting it aside, helping him pull off his shirt and managing to undo his buttons. Having her so close is still a fresh luxury, and he keeps getting distracted, trying to take it all in.

 

He’s never pictured the first time at a party, people on the other side of the door drinking and dancing and covering the noises of intimacy. It’s not _romantic_ , but with Betty’s dress around her waist, hair swinging across her shoulders with the fine quality of seaweed in a tide, he finds it magical enough.

 

“What’s wrong?” She sits back, the deep green of her eyes almost like a contact lens protecting her hues.

 

_Mind-reader._

 

He hovers on a lie, feeling his inexperience well up like a belch that will make her wrinkle her face and turn away, ashamed of the indecency.

 

“What are you worried about?” Half-exposed, she leans forward, studying his face while he struggles to reconnect on more than a basic level. “Juggie.” Her thumb strokes his cheek, and he melts, weak and bending.

 

“I just…I didn’t…”

 

He swallows, and she scoots closer, squinting as if trying to read through the cloud of bullshit in his brain. “Are you…healthy?” she asks, word choice deliberate, eyebrow quirked.

 

The breathy laugh on his end should get _him_ cast in a romantic novel. “Yeah.” Swallowing, his gaze yo-yos to the side before fixing on her nervously. Her chin does tilt back, gaze flicking past his mouth, tracing his stomach’s soft nuzzle of hair, and doesn’t go beyond where jeans have splayed to reveal his boxers and anxious cock.

 

“Do you want to go slow? Or do you want to stop?” Her hands sink into the mattress, absorbing her weight. “What do you want? We don’t have to do anything tonight. Or ever, if you don’t want to.”

 

Trembling, he reaches for her face. “I want to. We can go slow, right?” The acid nerves feel like they’re burning straight through his ribs. As if pining for so long has somehow caused him to combust when the attention is reflected back at him.

 

Gradually, the space between them closes, their eyes closing at a torturous speed, her warm breath tempting him for seconds before he meets the heat of her kiss. Their hands frame each other’s jaws, anchoring their place amidst sweeping declarations. He’s not lost so much as floating, rocking with the current, pulling her into his lap and laying her passion into him through touch and kiss.

 

He doesn’t think all kissing could be this way, even nearly naked, like this. Archie probably doesn’t feel his soul lifted out of him so much as his blood rushing south when an attractive girl pays attention to him. Every little noise of their bodies shifting together makes Jughead want to create a symphony, an interlude, and god help him, she _is_ his muse, but she also feels like a part of him somehow. One that’s taken root in him, ready to grow even more.

 

“Betty…” His thumbs move down, bracing her ribs, searching for something familiar.

 

Lips swollen, eyes dark, she puts one hand in between them. His eyebrows pop up in the realization she could touch herself _here_ , with him in the room, and he could do the same, but before the words are out of his mouth, she plucks the elastic of his boxers and asks, “Do you want me to touch you?”

 

The answer, inevitably, is _yes_.

 

One long lick of her palm with her eyes fixed firmly on his is almost enough to finish the job. He manages to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head. Aroused relief exits in a moaning exhale through his nose, her slightly sticky fingers wrapped around his length, twisting his pleasure into the cotton of his boxers.

 

“Betty,” he murmurs, pushing back her hair so he can kiss the sweet, firm flesh of her neck.

 

“Jug. I want to return the favor,” she shivers, his nails raking the underside of her scalp as he sucks an affectionate pink splotch into her skin where his mouth should be.

 

“You want to…?”

 

She nods, the rough material of her lace bra chafing against his chest, catching the edge of one nipple and sending a sharp pinch to his nerves.

 

“Betty, I’m barely gonna last as it is.”

 

“How do you want me?”

 

Groaning, he palms her breast, careful not to be rough or rip the material so callously shielding her from him.

 

“Y—yeah. I want to be in your mouth.”

 

Her kisses are hot, wet, and lingering on his mouth, playful nips under his jaw and neck, and dry, scratchy markings down the length of his chest. Although his whole body is aflame from the attention, he hates that she’s moving down, what feels like away, even though a very excited part of him knows it’s just towards _more_ of him. Just when her cheeks reach the fuzz of his stomach, she looks up, her beautiful face dark and warm with a blush. With careful confidence, she helps him shimmy out of his boxers and into her waiting hand. It’s smaller than his grip, but he shudders at how all-encompassing this feels.

 

She looks at him, waits, lifting his dick with consideration, like she’s finding the right light and angle, and fixes him with the dirtiest, sexiest look he’s seen in or out of porn and licks a stripe up his cock. He’s still hissing, shocked at the contact when she swirls around his tip.

 

He strangles off a shout in the stress of trying not to shove himself all the way down her throat seeking _more_. Sweet relief comes when she does encase him. His brain shuts off almost entirely, lost to sensation. Her hair. He touches her hair. Strokes it as she hums and bobs around him. His pointer and middle fingers scratch the nape of her neck, encouraging her pace, and he tries to keep his eyes open but it feels _so_ fucking good. The soft heat of her hair encases his fingers, her steady mouth pulling his passion.

 

“I—I’m gonna—” He tugs gently at her head, tapping her to rise.

 

“It’s fine, Jug. You can come in my mouth.”

 

“I…” Torn, he searches her face, the way her tongue spins leisurely, curiously at his tip while her eyes stay fixed on his, trying to read his mind. What _he_ wants.

 

With one hand fisting his length, her mouth gently singing some gentle tune at his tip, her other hand snakes into his, their fingers looping. _Together_. His nails tighten in her hair.

 

“I—!”

 

It’s all he gets out before his pleasure spikes, a snap in his hips that might as well break him into pieces to be gathered and rearranged at her leisure. Where euphoria pours out, sated disbelief fills in. He gets the odd feeling he’s blacked out and dreaming that Betty’s lips are popping off him so sweetly after consuming what he can only imagine is no better than the green beverage she’d been ignoring earlier.

 

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she waits for the ragged movements in his chest to resume before she climbs up to rest under his raised arm.

 

“How was that?”

 

“Great.” He clears his throat, eyelids heavy. “Great.”

 

Maybe she can make sense of his muddled, static thoughts that mostly involve _happy_ and _Betty_ and _sex_ all jumbled together.

 

“Was this a date?” he murmurs, already drifting off.

 

“No,” she chuckles, nuzzling into his neck.

 

Sighing, he traces the skin on her arm, enjoying the little goosebumps he can smooth.

 

He wants to take her on a date.

 

After waking up from his nap to kisses from Betty and a text from Archie asking if he left, Betty lets him use her toothbrush, which she’d thoughtfully stowed in her bedroom to avoid anything stupid happening to it during the party. Dazed, he splashes his face with water, wondering if and when she’ll offer him his own or if she’s content to share bacteria with him.

 

The rest of the party, she seems relaxed whenever they’re together, and allows him to put his arm around her on the couch but not kiss, _just in case_ , social media. Hosting duties eventually call, so Betty squeezes his knee, leans over, and thanks him for coming in a way that makes his hairs stand on end.

 

Archie asks how it went when they walk back to the dorm, and Jughead’s so dazed, all he can really manage to say is, “Great.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Uh, danced. I think we danced.”

 

Archie laughs, and Jughead frowns, because he’s pretty damn sure he’s walking right into Romeo’s footsteps of declaring undying devotion, and he wants this to be more _real_ than that. Better, even.

 

~~~

 

Her eyes shyly drag away from Sierra when he walks in, quickly returning to their professor as she nods along. He notices the way her fingers flex around her pen, the way she’s holding a breath and keeping her thighs tight together. Careful of his puppy love being too obvious for their professor, he stays a little quieter than usual, trying to stay under the radar. Watching Betty out of his peripheral vision makes him want to lick his lips at the memory of her. Or just crawl under that desk of hers and take a nap on her lap, her fingers gently twining through his hair. When Sierra calls on him, he answers thoughtfully, without his usual brand of sardonic humor, and Betty smirks, pretending to take notes.

 

There are a few days of “accidental” run-ins. The gym conversation turns to comments about showers, more blatant eye-wandering and soft smiling than should probably be allowed between a TA and student. _After_ , he reminds himself constantly. _Just a few weeks left of the semester_.

 

She joins his table at the library, which leads to some footsie under the table. She pops her ponytail forward with a pen and distracts him into forgetting everything in the last chapter until she kisses him behind the stacks and everything comes rushing back.

 

“Please,” he begs. “A date.”

 

She bounces on her feet, gently scratching under his hat. “We can’t yet. You know I like you, right?”

 

The sincerity in her open gaze tightens the insecure knot in his throat, shrinking it to the size of a pea, but he still doesn’t trust his own voice, so he nods.

 

“I do like you. A lot. You’re smart and funny and caring and…” She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “I want to take you out. A week after finals. I know you’ll probably be on break at home, so we can do it when you get back, but—”

 

“Where? When?” He smooths her hair back for the satisfaction of going with the grain of her ponytail, of being able to warm the tips of her chilly ears when her hair cannot. She’s too sweet not to press a kiss to her brow.

 

Humming a little, she wraps her arms around his waist for a hug. “That depends. Do you want dinner or…?”

 

“As much time as you’re willing to give.” He smiles so hopefully he doesn’t come off as desperate, gently swaying like he’s soothing one of the little animals that was in her breast pocket weeks ago. Or dancing. Jughead cracks into a smirk, realizing that he’s so far gone that he’s _dancing_.

 

~~~

 

During the final, he’s got so much energy that his knee bounces even more rapidly than when he’s on the stationary bicycle. His thoughts are hyper-intense, focused, because this is the _finish line_. The fucking _end_ to his days of pining not-so-quietly for Betty and Sierra’s role as disapproving Lady Capulet.

 

And then he does it. It’s over.

 

A surge of brightness in his step, he grabs his back hauls it over his shoulder. The walk to hand in his final has the same casual gravitas of a cowboy walking down the dusty streets past a conquered foe. Betty smiles up at him from where she’s working on her own essays. He presents her with the booklet like it’s a rose, and she graciously tips her head in acknowledgement, arching her back with pride and just a hint of arousal in her gaze. What he’d give to be able to just _hug_ her right now.

 

Sierra glances up, interrupting their moment as Betty slides into efficiency mode, adding and sorting his final to the pile. “Jughead. Have a nice break.”

 

“I’m sure I will. It was a pleasure, ladies.” He does a little bow, his gaze shifting to Betty. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

 

Trying not to smile, Betty gives him that little blink that makes him all tingly.

 

 _Until the morrow_ , he thinks she telepaths back.

 

Three hours later, he’s talking on the phone with his dad, telling him how finals went, and reassuring him that _yes_ , he will come visit on break, just not the whole time.

 

A sweet voice in the hall distracts him. “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art my Romeo?”

 

“Hold on a sec,” he says, tucking his phone under his cheek as he pulls open the door. Poking his head out, he sees his Juliet, who spins so quickly at the noise of his door opening that her hair seems to tumble on the other side of her in its effort to get out of the way. Everything in him lights up as she does, drawing herself up to full height and practically jogging towards him.

 

“I’m going to have to call you back.” He hangs up, throwing the phone on his nearby desk, and stares at the beautiful vision before him. In a few seconds she’s upon him, leaping into his arms and peppering his face with kisses. The impact is like falling into a bed after a long day. He cradles her closer to absorb the comfort.

 

“Can we?” He thought he’d have another week of torture before grades came out.

 

“Sierra let me go early and thanked me for my time as TA. I’m officially done with my duties,” she beams, sliding down until her feet touch the ground. “I have no impact on your education.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He trails his fingers along her neck, enjoying the soft way she looks at his lips. “I’m guessing we should wait a _little_ bit before going out into the world for our first date.”

 

“Really?’ she frowns, his hands cupping her cheeks immediately in the hopes of soothing her cheeks. “I thought once I found your room, you’d be so excited we’d leave right away.”

 

“Don’t I seem excited?” They kiss, gently enough he can hear the soft pluck of their lips when they part.

 

She crinkles her brow, all cute and smart and sexy. “How much longer until Archie leaves?”

 

“He left half an hour ago for break.” As he pulls her in, locking the door behind them, he leans down to nip playfully at her ear. “There’s this really great book I wanted to show you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is anyone else as much of a Shakespeare nerd as I am? Tell me if you caught things. Like the theme of Jughead needing to wait. Or of the first kiss happening after the "palmer's" dialogue and they LITERALLY KISSED BY A BOOK (you kiss by the book). Also Jug was totally talking to his father when she started "O Romeo-ing" which in the play has her asking to cast off his father's name and he hangs up on FP to greet his love so I'm just...embarrassingly into that kind of thing. Anyway. What parts did you like? Supply me with love and words, or even emojis because older Betty/younger Jug was exciting to work with and I'm curious what you thought or what you'd like to see. Thank youuu!


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